Destined for an Early Grave(19)

I sank my teeth in, swallowing his blood when I broke his skin. The small wound healed as soon as I drew away to kiss him.

His mouth covered mine, stealing my breath with the intensity of his kiss. “I love it when you bite me,” Bones growled once I broke away to gasp in air.

I held him tighter, my fingernails digging into his back. “Show me how much.”

A low laugh escaped him. He began to move faster.

“I intend to.”



Bones woke me with beignets and coffee, and we lingered in bed a while afterward. The surliness between us from before was gone, at least for the time being.

Since my meeting with Marie was tonight, we were still under her guest column, so we still had safe passage in the city. To take advantage of that, we toured the French Quarter. I didn’t need a jacket with the hot August weather, but I did put on sunscreen.

Bones led me from Bourbon Street to Jackson Square, then to the Saint Louis Cathedral, which looked very similar to some of the churches I’d glimpsed in Paris. After that, we stopped at Lafitte’s Blacksmith shop, one of the oldest buildings in the Quarter. While outside sipping a gin and tonic at one of the tables, I looked up to find a ghost suddenly standing next to us.

“Sod off, mate,” Bones told him. “As I was saying, luv, during the Great Fire—”

“It’s wretched justice that only the crazies care enough to talk to you when you’re dead,” the ghost muttered. “No vampire or ghoul will even bid you good day.”

Bones made an irritated noise. “Right then, good day, now off you go.”

“She’ll wonder who you’re talking to,” the ghost smirked in my direction. “Think you’re mad, she will—”

“I can see you,” I interrupted.

If someone partially transparent could look baffled, he did. Eyes that might have been blue narrowed.

“You don’t feel touched,” he accused.

“You mean psychic? I’m many things, but not that. Isn’t it a little rude, though, to plop down and start chatting away when we were having a conversation? You didn’t even say ‘excuse me.’”

“Kitten, I warned you about talking to them.” Bones sighed.

“I didn’t think you’d speak to me,” the ghost replied, starting to smile. “The undead”—he nodded at Bones—“just ignore us. They’re among the few who can see us, but they don’t even care!”

He spoke with such impassioned resonance, I would have patted him if he had been solid. Instead, I gave him a sympathetic smile.

“What’s your name? I’m Cat.”

He bowed, his head going through the table. “I am Fabian du Brac. Born 1877, died 1922.”

Bones leaned back in his chair. “Fabian, splendid to meet you. Now, if you please, we’re rather busy.”

“You’re Bones,” the ghost stated. “I’ve seen you before. You’re always too busy to talk to us.”

“Bloody right I am, nosy spectre—”

“Bones.” I tugged his arm. “He knows who you are!”

“Kitten, what does that…”

His voice trailed off as what I was mentally shouting penetrated. Then he turned his full attention to Fabian and smiled.

“Why, mate, I reckon you’re right. Sometimes I need to be reminded of my manners, I do. Born in 1877, you say? I remember 1877. Times were better then, weren’t they?”

Bones was right about ghosts being talkative. Fabian blathered on rapturously about bygone days, the sewage of modern culture, favorite presidents, and the changes in Louisiana. He was like a walking encyclopedia. It was amazing how much a phantom could pick up. Like, for example, the recent influx of out-of-town ghouls in New Orleans. Their hushed gatherings. Gregor’s name kept popping up, along with whispers about a threat to the ghoul species.

“Gregor and ghouls, eh?” Bones prodded. “What more did they say?”

Fabian gave him a shrewd look. “I don’t want to be forgotten any longer.”

“Of course not,” Bones agreed. “I’ve got a grand memory, I’ll remember you forever.”

“That’s not what he means.”

It was one of the few times I’d spoken in their conversation. Hell, I couldn’t swap tales about early-twentieth-century life, the sadness of seeing automobiles replace horses, or what the air smelled like before fossil fuels. But this part I understood.

“Fabian wants companionship,” I said. “He’s lonely. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Maybe it was the reflection of the sunlight, but there could have been tears in the ghost’s eyes. “I want a home. Oh, I know I can’t have a real family anymore, but I want to belong to someone again.”